Cupid's Bow
by imagination junkie
Summary: Sherlock nearly blows up the flat. John makes breakfast. Kissing ensues. Light, fluffy, shameless JohnLock slash.


John woke up at 5 am that morning. One of Sherlock's experiments had gone awry and the resulting meltdown sent enough smoke into the air to choke the entire flat and set the fire alarms screaming. John then spent what otherwise would probably have been a pleasant morning fending off the unhappy fire brigade (it was their third call to Baker Street that month and they were quickly losing their patience) and trying to calm the near hysterical Mrs. Hudson (the poor woman had had just about enough and was now threatening to throw Sherlock out: John was on the verge recommending she go on holiday simply for the sake of her heart).

Sherlock, for his part, had spent the morning perched sulkily in his chair, sending glares at anyone who walked through the room and muttering under his breath about hydrogen chloride and isothermal reactions.

There was one small boon in all the mess, however. Sherlock's most recent set of chemistry equipment had been destroyed by the disastrous experiment and the kitchen table, once cleaned (and John had made sure that Sherlock got it very, very clean), was now blessedly bare. It was an incredibly rare thing as the table was Sherlock's preferred location for experiments and John decided that he needed to take advantage of the opportunity to use it as a _kitchen_ table before Sherlock ran out and bought more equipment that afternoon.

So John cooked an enormous late breakfast, coaxed Sherlock over, and settled down to his own hearty meal.

As unusual and pleasantly normal (for other people) as this event was, John was quite perturbed when he realized it was beginning to backfire. This was because he was now seated across the table from Sherlock and had very few options for where he could rest his gaze that didn't seem awkward or anti-social (not that Sherlock cared). In fact, as breakfast lingered on, John found that the one thought that kept drifting to the top of his mind was the one he had been working very hard to repress recently.

John was obsessed with Sherlock's lips.

Now, that wasn't the only part of Sherlock's physical appearance that John liked. As he'd admitted to himself the very first time he met him, Sherlock was very attractive. With that dark, curly hair, that pale, flawless skin, his angular face that was all plains and angles, and those captivating, mercurial eyes Sherlock was, in a word, gorgeous.

In the fantasies John allowed himself to indulge in late at night and safe in his bed he would run his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls or to trace the shape of his neck and collarbone. During the day, however, those thoughts were forbidden, locked away in the back of his mind. But there was just _something_ about the man's lips that demolished John's self-control. Especially when Sherlock was sitting right in front of him.

But could you blame him, really? Sherlock's lips were perfect. The shape of his cupid's bow was dramatic and, John thought, sublime. The two points arched high and sharp before dropping down to join with smooth curve that formed the rest of his upper lip. His lower lip was wide and surprisingly full, with a soft shape that hinted at a hidden sensuality. Pale pink, they looked so soft and supple that it drove John mad. He just wanted to touch them, just once, to see if they were really so—

"What's wrong, John?"

John blinked blankly at Sherlock a couple of times. He was half-turned away, absorbed in one of the tabloid the newspapers, and did not look up. "Wha— There's nothing wrong."

"Of course there is," Sherlock replied, sounding bored. "You've been staring at me for the past five minutes and you've only blinked about half the number of times you should have."

"What, have you been counting?"

Sherlock shot him a disapproving look before ruffling his paper and continuing to read.

"Right. Not counting," John muttered a tad savagely before ripping the corner off his toast and shoving it in his mouth.

It didn't help that Sherlock was always _doing_ something with them. John loved to watch him talk, loved to watch his lips move as the words fell from them in his mouth's desperate race to keep up with his mind. When he was lost in thought Sherlock would press his fingertips to his lips, his hands in that funny steepled position with his fingers pressed tightly together. Then there was that beautiful 'o' shape they would make when he had his eureka moment in a difficult case. If only John could—

"You're still doing it."

The dishes on the table rattled loudly as John jumped, startled out of his Sherlock-induced stupor. "I am not!"

Sherlock finally looked up then, his eyes narrowing in thought. John swallowed convulsively as his flatmate's x-ray gaze focused on him and he got the sense that his every thought and feeling lay open like a book.

Finally Sherlock turned his skeptical gaze back to his paper and John was able to breathe a silent sigh of relief. Being the subject of Sherlock's deductions was always as nerve-wracking as it was astounding. It wasn't like he was _trying_ to stare at Sherlock, like he was _trying _to be obvious in his attraction to him (not that Sherlock was likely to notice something like that).

But those lips…oh, those lips would be his undoing. John watched hungrily as Sherlock raised his coffee mug and took a sip. He loved to watch Sherlock's lips press along the edge of a mug or a teacup. Or, dear God, the one time he'd seen his lips around the end of a cigarette. It was positively maddening.

It was when John realized that he was obsessed with his flatmate's lips that he realized that perhaps his vehement denials about the orientation of his sexuality were mainly for his own benefit. He was, in fact, gay. Or gay for Sherlock at least.

John was just beginning to get lost once more in his increasingly X-rated daydreams involving Sherlock, Sherlock's lips, and what he would like to do to them, when Sherlock abruptly closed his newspaper, folded it, placed it on the table smartly, and leaned across it so that he was inches from John's face.

"You're staring at me John."

John felt his face warm as he leaned away from Sherlock. Unfortunately, he was too restricted by the back of his chair to move back enough to ease the discomfort of the situation.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not," John denied, mortified as the tremor in his voice threatened to betray him. He swallowed convulsively once more under his flatmate's piercing gaze. "I'm just…uh…you know, spacing out."

"No," Sherlock responded, his tone absolutely assured, his gaze calculating. If John didn't know better he would have sworn Sherlock looked worried. "You're upset."

John felt his flush deepen. "I'm really not," he replied flatly. "What would give you that idea anyways?"

Sherlock gave John a look of blatant disbelief. "Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilated, your palms are sweaty, the muscles in your shoulders and chest are unusually tight considering the current unthreatening atmosphere, and your mouth is dry suggested by your difficulty swallowing as well as the increased frequency of you wetting your lips: all classic signs of physical distress," he rattled off dismissively. "Clearly you _are _upset. So, enlighten me to what is distressing you. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

John stared dumbfounded at Sherlock for a moment. He still hadn't moved away and his close proximity was slowly short-circuiting John's brain. God, but he smelled _good_. Burnt chemicals, industrial grade cleaner, aftershave, and something that was indefinably and indisputably Sherlock.

"I'm fine Sherlock. Really. There's nothing wrong with me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. They roved over John in a distinctly critical way, observing, deducing. John could practically see the thoughts racing behind Sherlock's pale eyes. Not like mechanical gears turning or a light bulb flickering on or anything as simple as that. Sherlock had once said his brain was his hard drive and it had always been clear to John that his mind worked exactly like that. The thoughts flashed fast as lighting as Sherlock processed them- considering, discarding, deciding- far faster than John could ever hope to comprehend.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not!"

"John," Sherlock replied tersely. His name wasn't spoken as a question or a request, but as a demand for information.

John felt sweat beading on his brow. He had been backed into the proverbial corner. His brain finally stuttered to a stop. No matter how hard he tried to couldn't think of the words he would need to talk his way out of this, to somehow defuse this _very _dangerous situation.

John licked his lips. He didn't fail to notice as Sherlock's eyes flicked downwards to watch the movement. Heat shot through John's body before pooling low in his abdomen.

At a loss for words and pinned by Sherlock's gaze, John obeyed the first thing that began to resemble a coherent thought as it floated through his mind. He reached out, tangled his fingers in the curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, and pulled his head down and forwards so that their lips pressed together.

It was an innocent kiss. Chaste. There was no tongue or teeth. No real movement either. But it blew John's mind all the same. Sherlock's lips felt even better than he'd always fantasized. They were soft and warm and wonderfully firm. They molded against John's like they'd been made to fit together. God, it was fantastic.

And then it was over. Sherlock blinked owlishly as John pulled away, his normal thought process clearly interrupted. "What was that?"

"Ah…" John felt rather faint. It had been wonderful when it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, but John had no explanation for it now. He vaguely thought he might be sick. He swallowed dryly before managing to squeak out his answer. "An experiment?"

As Sherlock leaned back John could see his mind beginning to whirl again. John felt like his face was on fire as Sherlock considered him seriously and his greatest desire in that moment was to bolt. Something in Sherlock's gaze held him in place.

"Interesting." Sherlock thought a little bit more. And then it happened. John could literally see the moment when Sherlock put two-and-two together and all the puzzle pieces clicked into place. "Obvious," John heard him mutter.

And then, quite suddenly, Sherlock was across the table again, half crouched and half standing as he pressed his cheek to John's. "I believe another trial may be in order," he whispered, those maddening lips brushing against the shell of John's ear and sending shivers of anticipation down his spine.

And then Sherlock kissed John.

If the first kiss lit fireworks, this one detonated a small nuclear bomb. Sherlock ran his tongue over John's lips and John shuddered once before grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and pressing their chests together, forcing the other man to half-sprawl across the table and the remains of their breakfast. John opened his mouth to moan and Sherlock's tongue darted inside. Not to be outdone, John fought back, his tongue wrestling with Sherlock's, the contact both aggressive and caressing at the same time. It then devolved into a mad mash of tongues and teeth and Sherlock's perfect, perfect lips.

The next thing John knew he was lying on the sofa with Sherlock hovering over him, one of Sherlock's hands pressed against his bare chest and the other braced on the arm of the couch next to his ear. A glance at the kitchen showed his jumper abandoned on the floor. Sherlock's shirt and pants were unbuttoned, revealing tantalizing strips of his unblemished skin and his smooth, wiry muscles. John had one hand tangled in Sherlock's hair and the other shoved down the back of his trousers, a solid grip on the man's wonderfully firm ass.

Sherlock's eyes burned with lust as he pulled away, panting slightly. "Would you like to take this upstairs?" His voice had dropped by a good half-octave and was deliciously husky. More heat sparked in John's nether regions.

John certainly didn't need time to stop and think about his answer (not that he ever needed to time to think about things when it came to Sherlock).

"Oh God, yes."

* * *

I promised myself a long time ago that I wasn't going to write any fanfiction about the characters from a live action show. But when it comes to this show and this pairing I really can't help myself. I _love_ JohnLock. Of all the pairings I have ever supported I think it just works the best.

This was born out my own adoration for Benedict Cumberbatch's lips. The man is gorgeous and his lips are just…wow. I actually wrote this in December, but I've taken my time reworking and editing it. There are still parts I'm not particularly happy with. And writing Sherlock is really hard. I mean, how am I supposed to write a character that's smarter than I am?!

I know nothing about chemistry. That bit in the beginning is pretty much just me throwing words together. As for the physical signs of stress that was just me throwing together the signs that seemed to apply both to stress and arousal. I claim no expertise whatsoever. Also I'm not British, so please excuse any failures in my terminology.

I hope you enjoyed my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction. It certainly won't be my last. Please review! And thanks for reading!

imagination junkie


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